


Mint Tea with Milk

by SandrC



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams as a form of therapy, Gen, Healing, Healing from near-death, Let Primsy Have Friends, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Talk Out Your Issues, let the team children share a blanket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: On theLa Fondue, as they find their way to Candia, Primsy heals and dreams, surrounded by people who care.
Relationships: Annabelle Cheddar & Primsy Coldbottle, Primsy Coldbottle & Liam Wilhelmina Jawbreaker & Jet Rocks & Ruby Rocks
Comments: 18
Kudos: 59





	Mint Tea with Milk

**Author's Note:**

> This is an apology for _Fog of War_ and _the Pipes, the Pipes_. I don't know how good of an apology it is, as I have a strange view of what is "sweet" but, aside from some nightmare-like dream shit (heavily inspired by Fantasy High Sophomore Year, namely the Nightmare Forest fuckery) it's just Primsy being doted on as she heals.
> 
> What even are the like...animals and plant shit of the various places in Calorum? IDK but I've made my own shit up. I don't need to be right, I just need to be clever.
> 
> The amount of time I spent googling shit about wound dressing and so on is untenable. Why do Lacrans drink milk like water. Brennan blease. Your world makes no sense and I'm dying.
> 
> I am not nor will I ever write Primsy and Annabelle's accent phonetically. It would make it unreadable. Just use your imagination. Please don't make me lmao.
> 
> Warning: dream bullshit, in the same vein as fantasy high sophomore year, namely Baron, also description of a pretty severe wound.

She dreams she is in a boat, a porcelain affair done up in intricate patterns of insect wings done in gilt and sea snail purple, drifting down a river of tea that smells of mint and fruit and honey. Around her the world is bright and vibrant, almost too much to look at, and inside this vessel is dull, monochromatic shades of cream. When she moves her hand, aftereffects leave trails of ripples, waves, like she has hundreds of hands and none at once. The ambient sound of this place is battle and ocean and the calm collection of malt birdsong.

She inhales and the scent of mint fills her lungs. In the boat with her is a piglet. She lets out a soft noise of surprise and pets the wriggly thing on the head. Their skin is cold and fuzzy and strangely warm all at once. They let out a snort and snuffle.

"You're Preston," she says to the pig, who looks at her with pink eyes that seem far wiser than the last time she saw them. He snorts and she continues, "Liam misses you."

She doesn't mention that Preston is dead. That she might be as well. The thought idly drifts by, like a sugar cube in the river she's in, and passes without being voiced.

"I wonder if he'll miss _me_ as well," she muses.

"Now is not the time for worry," someone says. Primsy cannot see the source, but there is a degree to which the person speaking sounds like... _an egg_. "Instead, young duchess, you must wake up. You have a country to run and people to reassure. There will be plenty of time for tea later."

She opens her mouth to ask who, or _why_ , or **_what_** —the exact nature of the question on the tip of her tongue—but a sharp jolt and muttered whispers startle her and she opens her eyes.

When had she _closed_ her eyes? The world is sharp and painfully bright. Her chest hurts. _It hurts to breathe_. She tries to sit up and finds someone pressing against her shoulders, gently keeping her in place.

"Hey, _hey, **hey!**_ You don't wanna move just yet," _someone_ —she thinks of an egg and mint and a river of tea—says. They're speaking low, barely audible, and she swallows air to try and answer.

" _Wh—?_ " _Bulb_ , it hurts to try and speak. She chokes on the sentiment.

"Not yet. You've gotta _rest_. It's only been one day." The blur in front of her, the one talking, comes into sharper focus and she can see the vague shapes and colors of Liam. His hat is gone, his hair a sodden mess, and his eyes are red but he looks _relieved_. Is he relieved to see _her_? To see her alive?

Behind Liam, other blobs become Jet and Ruby and Sir Theobald, the three Candians bustling about with a rag and a saucer of buttermilk and rough-made bandages. All three of them look worn down but happy to see her move. Ruby says something in that sing-song language she shares with Jet and Jet responds in kind, their eyes locked on her in eerie focus. Sir Theobald continues bustling about in the back, no longer wearing his armor, though he does look lost in thought.

" _Li..am..?_ " She tries. Her mouth is sticky, dry, a maddening impossibility. He smiles, soft and tight, and inclines his head to show he hears her. " _M's...or...ry..._ "

" _Why_ ," he asks, confused. His brow pinches, he frowns, and she wants to apologize again but her chest hurts and breathing is hard.

" _Sor...ry...,_ " she wheezes out again. "Made you... _worry_..."

"It's _not_ your fault," he says. There is a certainty to his words that is calming. Cold, even. She remembers tea and sweet fruit and cool, soft mint. "And everyone made it out okay. You just need to relax. You got it pretty hard."

She wants to ask what happened but Sir Theobald bustles forward and swaps the cloth on her forehead for a new, cooler, damp one. The gentle feeling of being cared for reminds her of the weight in her limbs and she sighs, soft, heavy.

"Go back to sleep, Primsy," Ruby says. Her voice is scratchy, raw, but clear and low. "We'll be here when you wake up."

"Don't worry," Jet says. Her voice, too, is rough from screaming, but she seems genuinely relieved. "We're not going _anywhere_. Next time, we'll get Annabelle too, _okay_?"

" _Okay_ ," she nods her head and succumbs to the darkness licking at her vision. Sleep takes her and she feels the pain in her chest lessen.

She dreams she is younger, before she has been marked to rule. She's wandering about Lacramor, hand on a cottage cheese sheep, watching the clouds. She isn't sure _how_ young she is—young enough that she doesn't have a guard, barely a duchess then, hardly noble—but the bright light of the bulb above casts yellows across the blue that marks a fine Highbright day. She takes a deep breath, her small lungs filling with the sharp smells of Lacramor's highlands, and exhales sharply.

" _C'mon_ , Prim!" Hand still caught in the curds of the sheep's wool, she turns to see two hands offered to her in tandem. Black and red, a younger Jet and Ruby—or _are_ they younger? She's _this_ age so _they're_ this age. That makes sense, doesn't it? But it's strange and out of place to see them like this in a way she can't place—grin at her in unison.

"Planning on getting us into trouble?" She asks. She does not think about how high, how soft, how light her voice is now as opposed to then—in the future, the distant past, time is a lie, _isn't it?_ —instead focusing on the lack of calluses on their hands.

(How much of their life was-is-will be shaped by war and battle? How much of hers was-is-will be? Their hands are smooth and their brows unfurrowed. How long will this last? What is it that breaks them? What is it that breaks _her_?)

She's friends with them now. _Here_. In this ~~dream~~ place. "Only if we get _caught_!" Jet laughs. Ruby nods.

"Now _c'mon_ Prim! We have someone we wanna show you!"

Above them, a butterscotch falcon circles, crying. She takes their hands and runs through the grass after them, her skirts stained with early morning Highbright dew. She's never _been_ to Candia, she thinks idly, but it must be _just_ as pretty as the royal family are. A brilliant rainbow of sweet and bright. A menagerie of colors that don't exist _anywhere else_.

"You're gonna _love_ him!" Ruby says. She speaks like a song, warm and rising, falling lyrical, even when she speaks the shared common tongue of the Concord instead of their twinspeak.

"He's a _riot_! And he misses you!" Jet adds. Primsy blinks, confused, but carries on. Why would she doubt them? They're her _friends_. She's _safe_ around them. _With_ them. Why _wouldn't_ she be?

But who is she being taken to see? Who would miss her? _Misses_ her? Who is she forgetting? Who has she _forgotten_? Present past future, they blur like a milkshake, and she feels a little off kilter herself, equilibrium thrown off.

" _Oh?_ " She asks. Jet and Ruby nod, eyes wide, smiles wide, hearts wide open.

They crest a hill, the three of them, the bright bulb behind them throwing their shadows far across the rolling highlands of Lacramor like hungry wolves with sharpened teeth and wary eyes. Primsy's breath catches in her chest at the majesty of it all. The feeling of ruling without the burden. She's queen of a kingdom of three, hand in unwavering hand with her friends and co-rulers, their cool liquorice fingers linked through her own glass grip.

Ruby and Jet lead her further in a forest at the base of the knoll, large cheeseboard trees with their brilliant yellow foliage spread wide, eating up all the light. The forest—the hills a painting, picturesque, palatial, serene—is a mirror to its calm facade. The forest is warm tones and shadows, like a fire from the inside.

(Her skin feels hot. She can feel pinpoints of cold—her hands, her forehead, her shoulders, her stomach—but she is sweating. She feels she might even curdle for the heat. Still, she swallows her discomfort. Demure, soft, and sweet. That is who she is meant to be.)

( _Even if that isn't true_.)

"Where... _where_ is this person?" Primsy asks. She doesn't mean to be worried but the lack of ambient sound is making her wary. The silence is a warning.

(A storm at sea. A ship breaking to splinters. A blade in her back.)

"Deeper in," Ruby says.

"At the end of the Path!" Jet finishes. They have never talked in tandem before. It is unnerving in the same way that the warmth of the forest feeling less welcoming than the cold sharpness of the highlands is.

In the yellows and oranges of the leaves, a soft purple cloud billows out from underneath their feet. Primsy drags back, confused and worried, but Jet and Ruby soldier on, their smiles stretching into harlequin giggles. Their eyes glint with magic—blue and purple heresy, apostasy, _danger_ —but she follows still. _They won't hurt her_. They would help her, no matter what. Even at the cost of their lives. So she follows on, _trusting_.

Farther down the rabbit-hole.

In the center of this cloud of purple and cloying sweetness, at the epicenter of the forest but also not—the Neighbors, taking her for whatever whims they desire—and she tastes honey and fruit and sugar and mint.

Liam— _not_ a child like she is-was but the age he is-will be—sits on a large, dark-colored gumdrop boulder, his knees against his chest. Jet and Ruby drop Primsy's hands and sit next to him, grinning. A butterscotch falcon lights down on Ruby's arm, talons softly curled to not draw blood. A blue sprinkle the size of a lamb curls in Jet's lap and makes a strange chittering noise as she strokes its midsection. Behind Primsy is a snorting noise and she jolts forward, pushed by something that shocks her out of her stunned state. Her hands make contact with the boulder and she looks up at Liam.

His eyes are sad but relieved. He smiles at her and it is _so_ sincere. The smell of mint permeates her nose and she breathes deep.

"I was told you missed me?" She asks.

Liam nods and inclines his head for her to sit with them. "You're _my friend_."

" _Am I?_ I don't _have_ many friends my age. _Any_ friends, really," she admits. She clambers on the boulder and folds her legs underneath her in a way that doesn't mess up her dress more than it already is—stained orange with grass and purple with sugar and now dusted white with more of the same.

"You were nice to me. You _and_ them," Liam smiles and _it hurts_.

"You _deserve_ to have someone be nice to you. You're a good person."

" _Thank you._ " Liam leans forward and presses his forehead against hers—cold and _oh_ , the sharp smells of mint drowns out everything else for a moment—before drawing back. "You need to wake up, Primsy."

"Primsy you _need_ to wake up. We're _worried_ about you," Jet says and she sounds— _is_ —older. Is the age she will be.

"Primsy, _please_ , we need you to wake up," Ruby says, older as well. Her voice is hoarse, scratchy, sour, and Primsy fights against the tide of darkness and sugar and honey and fruit.

_She opens her eyes._

Annabelle's worried face is all she can see for a moment. The shock of feeling a boat beneath her turns her stomach and she gasps, rolling over to heave into a bucket someone produces—not that she _can_ see, eyes watering so hard her vision is beneath a sea of saline—but nothing comes of her body's frantic movement to relieve the nausea except a coughing fit that sets her side alight. When she leans back in place, Annabelle is there still, worried, relieved, and offering her a glass of milk.

"You _damn_ fool. _Both_ of us," Annabelle whispers as Primsy takes small sips of milk to rehydrate. "We're so lucky that we had stowaways. That Candia _still_ _has_ _honor_."

"A...are you _o...kay?_ " Primsy asks. _Bulb_ , her throat feels like she's been chewing glass. It's raw and sharp and painful just to swallow but she _needs_ , more than anything, to _talk_. To _listen_. She _needs_ to know what's going on.

"Better than _you_ ," Annabelle chides. She's been crying. _Is_ crying. Primsy reaches up to wipe a tear away but the bandages that are wrapped around her limit her dominant hand movement by the shoulder. " _Ah_ , don't move. Not yet. You need to _rest_."

"Every...one keeps saying...that... _but_ they...wake me up," she manages. She takes another grateful sip of milk as Annabelle laughs, a choked sob of relief.

"I'm _selfish_ ," she admits, "and wanted to make sure you were still there. I've seen too many people fall silent in their dreams."

" _Not_ your...fault," Primsy tries to reassure her.

"I _asked_ for it. Used my boon for it. Even when Liam and Amethar and Theobald looked concerned as I spoke of him so fondly, I soldiered on. I'll take some, if not _all_ of the blame."

"He...was _so_ kind...I don't think I knew...what _that_...type of love was _supposed_ to...look like."

"He killed _so many people_ , Prim," Annabelle whimpers. "And I let him near you. I didn't listen when people offered counsel. I didn't listen when people pointed out the bodies in his wake. I wanted you to be happy so I was willing to overlook my own reservations about him if it meant _you_ would have something _I_ never could."

"Is everyone... _okay_?" She inclines her head as much as she can, a nod of comfort. Annabelle nods.

"One casualty on our side. _The Colby_ is gone. _He's_ at the bottom of the Shoals, a dagger in his throat. You have Jet to thank for that."

Primsy reaches her off hand up to grip Annabelle's, squeezing it softly. "I'm glad... _you're_ safe."

Annabelle doesn't respond, simply collapsing into tears. They sit like that for a long while before she sits up, drags her arm across her eyes, and lets out a sharp sigh. " _Alright_. I have to get back to it. We're still a few days out of the Stone Candy Mountains but it won't be long. I'll be back. Wake up again, _yeah_?"

" _Yeah_." Primsy watches as Annabelle leaves and in comes Sir Theobald, who starts prepping dressing. "Sir Theobald," she calls. He starts, ears angling back at her, then turns his head. He looks as exhausted as she feels, dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze is sharp as ever. " _Sorry_ for...doubting you."

"You don't need to apologize," he responds, idly soaking bandages in buttermilk. "The timing was wrong. Tact is as important as the truth and, while there's no _good_ way to give anyone that information, I could have handled it better as well. The blame is equal."

"I...appreciate your hard work," she pushes, "And you...were _right_. Even if I...didn't _want_ to believe you."

"Then _rest_. Heal up. A wound like what _you_ have takes a while to recuperate from and longer still to heal. Princess Jet did everything in her power to make sure you made it here." He uses his claws to gently tear the dry bandages from around her chest and, for the first time she can see what her foolishness has wrought.

It's not a clean piercing. Where the blade had entered her shoulder is a fractured spread of spiderweb cracks, a hole in the dead center. As Theobald peels back the bandage directly over the injury, she can see the soft film already forming to prevent her from bleeding more, a lance of pain drawing tears to her eyes.

" _Sorry_ ," he apologizes. She had been hissing in pain. She bites down on the noise and nods for him to continue.

The cracks run up to her shoulder, down to her ribs. Breathing being hard makes sense. So does her inability to move her arm much. The cold bandages are soothing, the buttermilk solution sharp on the open wound. Still, she tamps down on the pain and lets Theobald finish his job.

" _There we go_. Is there _anything_ else I can get you, Duchess?" His face, weary and worn, seems as relieved as Annabelle had been. They worried about her.

They cared about her. Care about her.

"Can you...send Jet and Ruby and Liam in? I'd like some...company right now." He bows, a perfect incline of his head, his spine rigid still. Then he heads out the door.

She lets herself think about the injury, the pain a focal point for her idle mind. She doesn't want to dwell on Stilton or her marriage or the fact that she's a widow now. She just thinks about the pain, the reminder, the memento.

She doesn't notice that Jet, Ruby, and Liam are in her quarters again until Liam calls her name, starting her. She smiles at them and they smile back.

Everyone looks so tired.

"I wanted...to _thank_ you..." she says.

" _Don't bother_ ," Ruby protests, "You're our friend and we _want_ you to be okay."

" _Still_...I should have listened."

"We _all_ should have done _a bunch_ of things," Jet says, her tone and face set hard and dark. Primsy thinks about Annabelle saying that Jet had ended Stilton in her stead. About how Jet had been with her in the crow's nest. How that paranoia had saved her. "But it's good. _We're_ good."

"I'm _glad_...you're my friends."

Liam starts to sniffle, tears welling up in his eyes. Jet reaches out and rubs small circles in his back, soothing and slow. Primsy holds up her non-dominant hand to him, shaky, slow.

" _I—_ ," Liam can't finish the thought, pushing forward to grab Primsy's hand so hard she thinks it might fracture in his panicked grip. Primsy pulls him closer, mindful of her bandages and the loose shift covering her, and drags him into a loose hug. The smell of peppermint—soft, tinged with vanilla, an undercurrent of sharp spearmint beneath even that—fills her mouth and she exhales _cold_. It feels good and she leans her head into his side.

" _I'm_ _sure_ ," she says. _She's_ only ever really had one person she's cared about either. Just her and Annabelle, and even then, Annabelle had her duties and her calling. So she understands the hole that loneliness and loss can bring.

Not to _this_ degree, but it's _something_.

As Liam shakes against her, sorrow pouring from him in choked and stuttering sobs, Jet and Ruby link fingers and watch from the foot of her bed. Every so often, one of them says something in the soft lyrical rise and fall that only they seem to understand and the other responds. Then they both stand to leave, just as Liam's grip lessens and his body starts to relax against hers, his breaths evening.

" _Don't go?_ " She asks, sharp, clear. It's the first words she's spoken that aren't scratchy or forced. It stops them in their tracks. " _I_...I just don't want to be alone right now. _Would_ you?"

They exchange a glance between them and then look back at her. "Is there room?" Jet asks, her voice low as to not disturb the tired Liam.

"If you're careful...I'm sure there's _plenty_ of room. This _is_ the captain's quarters, after all. They have the largest bed." She offers them a soft smile to reassure, drawn tight and taut, strained by exhaustion and diplomacy. She just wants to rest.

Jet tentatively curls against her side, up into Liam. She leans her cheek into his side and he lets out a soft sigh, tension releasing. Ruby presses herself into the space at Primsy's feet, curved in a way that would be unnatural for a Lacrans but suits the young Candian just fine. The weight is somehow comforting and, with all three of them pressed against her, Primsy can feel the long fingers of Morpheus curl around her consciousness again.

" _Thank you_ ," she manages to murmur, her throat thick with sleep.

"For _what_?" Ruby asks. Even laying down, Primsy can see her bright eyes—flecks of glimmering blue set in their brilliant crimson depths—at her feet, gazing inquisitively but without judgement.

"Saving Annabelle. Saving _me_. Being here. _All_ of it...really."

"Like we said," Jet whispers. Her eyes—also bright, reflecting the candlelight despite their dark depths—half-lidded but watching, wary, warnings. " _You're our friend_. And I _promised_ , didn't I? I _always_ keep my promises." She yawns, long, exhausted. "Or I _try_."

" _Regardless_ ," Primsy protests. Against her side, she can feel Liam sigh, body already relaxed and breathing even and slow.

"Don't worry about it," Ruby says, finality impacted by the yawn that breaks her own soft breathing. "Just focus on getting better."

"You're the third person to tell me that _today_." But she is gone, drifting in the current of dreams again, the warmth of her friends a comfort and security she's never had the chance to experience before. Not since she was _very_ little and it was her and Annabelle and nothing more.

With that thought, she drifts into darkness.

She dreams of a forest of kaleidoscopic colors, sugar glass catching the light of the bulb and spinning it into fractals of brilliant hues. Sweetness saturates everything around her and she can barely breathe as it coats the inside of her mouth but _she can't be bothered_. It's simply too nice to worry about breathing in a place like this. _Far too nice_.

Sprites of a soft mauve and deep chocolate surround her, their clicking mandibles chattering as they laugh. " _Come_ , duchess, and we shall show you your kingdom! Come with us, duchess, and we will show you _your love_!"

She does not ask. _There is no need_ , instead following trails of bright shimmering sparks down a trail of brittle butter that cuts through a soft flan swamp, surface tension roiling beneath her light dancing steps. The sprites titter and beckon, their fingers spindles drawing milk silk from her mouth, her skin shimmering spiderweb, her essence leading her deeper in. A puppet to some machinations she does not understand, nor does she care to. _It's too complicated_. Better to _follow_ than _lead_. Heavy is the head, the heart, _the chest_.

"Come, _come_ ," they call, eyes almonds of malicious joy, grins sharp needles to prick, to tear, to rend. "We have your love, your romance partner, _your future_. Follow. _Follow_!" _And she does_.

In the depths of this realm—ever shifting from bright colors to cold blues and greens and blacks, a sinister tone made worse by the chill that seeps into her bones if she were able to feel anything but the song played on the strings oozing from the sharp pinpricks in her skin—she is lost. She dances until her feet bleed, sings until her voice cracks, and finds her good dress sullied with mud and sweat. Still, it is not enough for her captors, who call, "Duchess, _duchess!_ "

"I have had my fill," she says through a closing throat, eyes steel. Clarity is here, fleeting as it may be, but she perserveres, " _Let me go_. You have no sway over me."

"But we _do_ ," they sing, simper, slithering, "for we have _your name_. And _you_ , foolish pretty duchess, _you_ have partaken of our food. We may keep you. _It is law_."

"My _title_ is not my _name_ ," she asserts.

" _Primsy Coldbottle_ , do _not_ take us for fools. We have your romance partner. Your _husband_. You have married into us. You _cannot_ leave." They part, marionettes with cut strings, slack and slung aside for a handsome angular figure to step out. He has a demure smile, though it seems more cunning that coy. He laughs with their voice and she starts at how much the sound alone hurts.

" _Primsy Coldbottle_ , dear duchess, you _cannot_ leave. _I will not have it_." This man—strange, man-shaped, his skin sallow and pocked with blue green rot that eats away what would be kind warmth, his eyes a cold ice—laughs with the voice of the sprites and the forest and _the realm_. Her chest tightens and he nods, an incline of his head. "You cannot even _breathe_ if I will not allow you. How can you _rule_? You _deserve_ this, a break, a respite. Sleep here, my sweet, _my duchess_ , and let your romance partner take the burden of a crown from your delicate form. _It would crush you_."

She struggles, breaths sharp and painful. She wants to _fight_ , to _stand_ , to _speak_ , but the naming and compulsion that grips her prevents it. She _hates_ this. She wants to scream.

She feels so _alone_.

"But you _aren't_." Beside her, wearing a mask of a rabbit, teeth bared in a snarl of defiance, is a figure in a knight's tabard a glimmering black.

"You have _us_ here beside you." To her other side, wearing a mask of a rabbit, mouth drawn in a sly grin, is a figure in fool's garb a brilliant red.

"We're here to help you find your strength." Behind her and crouched low, blending in with the shadows, wearing a mask of a pig with tears of frozen ice, is a figure in shimmering hunter's clothing with a weapon he hands to her, hilt-first.

She stares at the weapon. It is a blade made of a brilliant scintillating ivory, spiraling upward. The grip is a soft leather that fits in her hand perfectly. Even beneath the sickly blue of the shade, she marvels at the rainbow that plays across her cracked hands, triangles of color that scatter and glimmer.

A blade for a maiden. A unicorn's horn.

"Let me take that from you," the man says, a voice once music now broken gears screaming and grinding against hopes and desire. She can see blood flecking his teeth, his fingers, his claws. "A sword is unbefitting of someone like you. Dainty. _Fragile_. And a unicorn is a gift for maidens, _not_ married women. It will not listen to you. _I know what's best_."

" _Don't_ let him sway you," the hunter pig warns, low and hidden in the shadows, cold eyes calculating. "Anyone who tells you _how_ to think or feel seeks to hobble you and prevent your growth. There are dangers in demands and avoiding them is more of a dance than those in court. Free thought is a powerful ally against those that would control others, ignorance their preferred tool."

" _Listen_ to your instincts," the knight rabbit advises, bouncing softly in place, still unseen, gaze fit to murder and locked on the man. "If _you_ think he is a danger, then _follow_ that call. You know what is best for you above all and you have learned patterns to be wary of. Toxic men have toxic colors and _this_ one reeks of mould."

" _Do not_ discount advice," the fool rabbit whispers, still as stone and calculating as time, wary but not without action. "People who _care_ will offer guidance but _not_ demands. Weigh what you have been told against your knowledge and draw a conclusion there. Wisdom and intelligence are equally important, moreso balancing your lack with advisors who have surplus."

His hand—claws, curled and dripping with milk and honey and impaled figs— _outstretched_. His smile—fanged, sugar syrup drool slipping between his lips, wider still than it should be— _thin_. His eyes—pits, sunken deep, a flame in something hollow, yellow with age or perhaps something else— _piercing_.

She wonders if ruling is making a decision like _this_. She wonders if ruling a kingdom is instinct and knowledge and guidance in equal parts. She wonders if she is suited for this blade after all.

She feels their presence nearby, her allies, and she _knows_ the truth. The scales fall from her eyes and she sees the monster in front of her unmasked.

She steps forward, soft, unassuming. Hand out, smile up. "You want _this_?" She asks the man, insincere, irritated, drowned in soft shy silence. "This _blade_? This _crown_? This _body_?"

To _break_. To _wear_. To _consume_.

The man coos, a hidden predator, and nods his head. She can see, now glamor lifted, the broken twisted thing that wants _so badly_ for a mortal throne _without_ the fetters of a mortal life. "Yes. _Yes_ , dear duchess. Give to me your burdens, your unwanted gifts foisted upon you by well meaning others, _your **everything**._"

She steps forward, unassuming, open, and sighs as she places a hand against his hand. She does not flinch at the texture of his skin. She does not draw back at the thought of what she will do. _Must do._

She plunges her sword into the man's head. It has no heart to speak of so it would do no good in its chest cavity. It has no use for anything but its head, the scheming thing, and it screams agony as it is torn asunder, the holy light of a gifted spirit piercing the very _nature_ of the supposed-man.

A plant, long of tooth and sweet smelling. Honeypot. _Trap_. Open maw gaping lazily. Body bloated from success.

He is used to getting everything he wants and without that, he's nothing but a poorly constructed pool of regret.

She breathes, a sigh of relief, and turns to embrace her companions. They wrap her in their arms and she sobs, _free_ , the tension releasing itself as sorrow and joy in equal measure.

"How do I move on from this?" She asks as they hold her close.

"One step at a time," the fool rabbit says.

"Eyes to the horizon," the knight rabbit says.

"Hand in hand with those that love you," the hunter says.

And she stays that way until the dream fades, wrapped in their arms, safe and no longer alone. And she wakes, surrounded by friends and covered in a warm blanket.

And she heals, in time.


End file.
